


the hopes and fears of all the years

by somethinglikegumption



Series: most wonderful time of the year [4]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Canon Related, Gen, Mentions of Betty Cooper/Jughead Jones, this made me sad just writing it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-22 15:47:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17062550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somethinglikegumption/pseuds/somethinglikegumption
Summary: Jughead's 17th Christmas is very different from the 16 before it.





	the hopes and fears of all the years

**Author's Note:**

> A Tumblr anon prompted this with the request "Jughead, but not necessarily Bughead". Here you go, anon.

Christmas in the Jones trailer always seemed to take the same routine. 

Jellybean would wake him up by jumping on the pullout couch they shared, which Jughead would try to fight off for a few extra minutes of sleep. Once she finally got him up, they would fold the bed back into the couch, talking in low whispers about the presents under the tree. 

They would turn on a movie, something appropriately seasonal, and eat whatever cereal was in the cabinet. They knew better than to be loud and wake up their parents.

Two hours or so later, Mom would wake up and brew the strongest pot of coffee she could make with the coffee grounds left over at the bottom of the Folgers tin. Dad would stumble out a couple minutes later when the smell of coffee drifted down the hall.

The two of them would sit at the table, clutching their mugs and sucking down the liquid while Jughead and Jellybean sat quietly on the couch finishing their movie, the anxious excitement sneaking out with the unison bouncing of their right knees. 

Only after the second cup of coffee would Dad say “alright then” and Jughead and Jellybean would dive for the boxes under the tree. There were never very many of them, but they always seemed to be surprises, and good ones.

His first journal.

A sherpa jacket, slightly oversized at the time, found in a Wellwill bin, that he still wore to this day.

The secondhand laptop he took with him everywhere.

Then Mom would go to work and Dad would go…wherever, and they’d be alone again, back to the normal routine.

Until his 17th Christmas. The year he turned 16. The year Jason Blossom was murdered. The year he was homeless, and joined a gang. 

And fell in love.

There was no Jellybean, jumping on top of him and begging him to let her “just peek at the presents, Jug!” No movies on the couch with their cereal bowls. Instead of Mom coming down the hall to brew the coffee, he made a morning trip to Pop’s on his bike to pick up a travel thermos - “on the house, because it’s Christmas,” Pop said with a smile. Dad didn’t even say the traditional words to kick off opening the presents.

Instead he apologized.

For the gang. For the drinking. For Penny. For forcing him to grow up too fast and driving him so far to the edge that he felt the need to live anywhere but their trailer. 

And Jughead found himself hugging his dad, willingly, for the first time in a year.

Dad rubbed his shirt sleeve over his face and pointed to the box under the tree with his other hand. Jughead pretended not to notice the tear, and went to open Betty’s gift.

That night, the ding of the margin and the clacking of keys were a sweet accompaniment to the carol playing through the radio.

As Jughead started to type the next line, the first sentence in a new chapter, his new chapter, he heard the words.

The hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight.

The hope of the future, the possible reconciliation with his dad. The fear of what’s to come, the turmoil of his life caught between two sides of town. All suspended in this one moment, as the writer contemplates his next plot point.

He reset the carriage, and began to type.


End file.
